


to the edge of the water

by quiets



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Blind Character, Disabled Character, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 17:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13345575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiets/pseuds/quiets
Summary: Snippets from Chirrut's timeline revolving around his loss of vision and his growing relationship with Baze. Interspersed with a healthy dose of banter and sweet rolls.





	to the edge of the water

Like most things in life, the change had come gradually. He can recall just barely emerging into adulthood when it began, pushed ever-forward by his eager heart and curious hands. His elders had always known him as one to ceaselessly wander the ancient city, and had long since given up on attempting to forbid him from sneaking out at odd hours. Over the course of the year following his nineteenth birthday, Chirrut’s meanderings through narrow backstreets and quiet walkways far past the chill of dusk slowly shrunk in radius from the temple until he hardly ventured far into the night at all. At first it was an unconscious thing, a thoughtless shift in behavior. Before long, it was more than purposeful, the creeping anxiety a leash that bound him closer and closer to the familiar. When asked about it, he brushed it off with a toothy grin and a half-hearted joke about being a late-bloomer in maturity, too prideful to admit that his eyes could hardly see anything beyond murky shadows in the darkness.

The temple’s hallways became a journey unto themselves at night. In the golden light of the sun, he could see everything from the flutter of an insect’s wings to the crease of the baker boy’s brow when he plucked an unoffered sample from floured countertops. In the dim of twilight, the world around him faded until the only shapes that spotted his vision were the blobs of candlelight and lanterns dotted sporadically through halls and rooms.

He adjusted. He learned to listen carefully, to walk with delicate steps, to memorize his pathways so that he could return to his bed unscathed. Of course, there were the occasional bumps and falls when an obstacle laid on the floor, or when his brain was simply too frazzled with weariness to keep strict track of where he was headed. But those moments were always handled with ease under the gaze of others, taking advantage of the moment to draw laughter, always the clown amongst the boys even as the onset of his adult responsibilities demanded more seriousness from him.

In the late hours spent waiting for sleep to come, he felt like a sailor stranded in vast, black, murky water. He lifts his fingers up towards the faint haze of starlight streaking through the covered window, turning his hand this way and that. A spark of cold blooms steadily through his stomach when he realizes he cannot see the difference between the appendages whatsoever, his hand a vague mass blocking out the dim shred of light the sky has allowed him.

He rises silently to open the curtains before retreating back into slumber.

\----

The cramped apartment Chirrut shares above the marketplace feels an entire world away from the old room that had once been his own. Although the temple had been within city bounds, its location was far from the heart of the commotion. Its semi-isolation provided relative peace for the guardians and pilgrims alike to meditate and celebrate their faith with one another, a haven tucked away within the sprawling and crowded center of Jedha. There were no such moments of silence to be found here; thousands of feet tramped along the well-walked street beneath their window, much to the grumbling of his ever-sunny husband. Although the noise had never bothered him much, it was difficult not to miss the familiarity of the home he had shared with so many others for the majority of his life.

Chirrut is always the first to wake, drawn slowly to consciousness by the sounds of sellers preparing for the long day ahead. He can pick out the beating of a stick against carpets, the soft chatter between two old women, the skittering of stray sand on the windowsill. He rises slow, stretching the sleep from his muscles and drinking in the fleeting peace while it lasts. Above all else, Baze’s rhythmic breathing grounds him to the present, a reminder of their continued and stubborn survival. Not unlike the flora of their cold and arid moon, they existed in spite of a callous and harsh world that would much sooner see them wither than thrive.

When the elder guardian rises, Chirrut is lost in meditation, giving only a faint twitch at the sound of blankets rustling. Though it had been years since Baze lost his faith, he never made any move to interfere with his partner’s. If there was one common understanding that could bridge that gap, it was the loss that both had endured, one deep enough to cast them away from something they had dedicated their lives to preserving. Under catastrophe, everyone had a different way of coping with immeasurable grief and hardship; this was something Chirrut had accepted long ago. They had grown together through the unforgiving chill, the angry sun, the choking dust, the drowning rain. They had crawled like bugs from beneath Imperial boots and lived to see the breaking light of another dawn. There was no place for imposing their way of dealing upon each other, for if they had chosen that path, they would be no better than those who strove to impose their will upon them.

When Chirrut finally relaxes his pose and allows himself to return more fully to the present, he hears the clinking of ceramic, the soft rumble of boiling water. He waits, patiently, until sluggish steps approach and a cup is passed to him in silent greeting. He smiles, touching fingertips to the hand that combs through his bedhead.

“You look like a cat that stopped halfway through cleaning itself.”

“In that case, thank the Force I can’t see,” he grins, satisfied when he hears the quiet chuckle that Baze’s sigh attempts to hide.

\----

By the time his vision begins to deteriorate past night blindness, it becomes impossible to hide from the rest of the temple. His peripherals fade further with each day, turning into a dark and blurred mass that seeps deeper into his field of view like a growing tumor. He feels suffocated. He feels that he’s certainly done something deeply wrong, if the Force were truly responsible for all of the life in the galaxy. His last day of semi-normalcy comes to a crashing halt when he bumps directly into an elder that had been standing to his right, embarrassment and shame rippling throughout him as he’s sent to the temple’s ward with a stern reminder of his responsibility to take care of his mind and body.

What was the point, if the very thing he vowed to protect had no interest in protecting him?

He isn’t told anything he doesn’t already know. Though one could call him childish in certain ways (and many did), he was never naïve enough to have hope that his eyes could somehow be healed with their limited resources. Somewhere out there in the galaxy, surely, there was the technology for those who could afford the credits. But not in the dilapidated city, nor on a dusty moon standing on its last legs of significance in a galaxy that was slowly forgetting in favor of faster routes and flashier destinations. Though Jedha would always be his home, Chirrut was well aware of its shortcomings.

That afternoon he sits at his windowsill, eyes wandering past the garden of roots and vines to the sprawling streets and faint dots of people he struggles to pick out. The healer had told him there was no way to predict how quickly his sight would continue to deteriorate—it could be weeks, months, or even years, Force willing. He urges himself to meditate, to pray, but can’t close his eyes long enough to focus. Each time he tries to sit with himself in the darkness, eyelids flutter open seconds later, overtaken by the terror that he’s losing precious moments he’ll never gain back once it’s fled from him.

The thought gives way to despair that threatens to choke him; he tries to suppress the tears that come, but they come anyways. His breaths hitch in his throat, soft frightened noises. A lanky hand clasps over his mouth, afraid to be heard, ashamed to be seen. Chirrut wishes he had a deep well of strength to draw from, the unfaltering resolve that his elders seek to impart upon their students. He feels for it, desperate to find anything that could push him through the darkness.

“I’m one with the force, and the force is with me,” he breathes quietly, “I’m one with the force, and the force is with me.”

The words spill like frantic nothings into the air, but he clings onto them, terrified of what would become of him if his faith slipped away as surely as his sight. It isn’t enough to steady him, but enough to lull him into dreams, slumped against the floor by his bed. When he wakes, the vivid colors are duller, and the creeping darkness is back, and the tears haven’t quite dried from his face.

It isn’t until he smells the familiar scent of sugar and flour that he realizes he hasn’t eaten since the morning. In the setting sun, he gropes his way towards where two sweet rolls sit at the windowsill, nearly cooled. A note written in a familiar scrawl is weighted down with a rock; he lights a lantern, squinting in the flicker of flame to read what’s been left for him.

_“The Force provides to those who are not afraid to reach out.”_

\----

Though it’s almost impossible to recall the exact memory of being taken in as a young boy, he can look back with clarity on the day he met Baze. Back then, life in the temple was a familiar tempo for the children, a set routine that helped to mold them into the material of guardians. Though prized on their behavior, whenever a new melody disrupted the pattern of their daily life, it was difficult not to become excited with the change—even if it meant a disruptive buzz descending upon the acolytes for a day or two.

They were both young, though Baze had him beat by a year. At only the age of seven, Chirrut had already earned himself a notorious reputation for hardly ever keeping still. He could almost never sleep through the night as a young boy, and would take to wandering just before the dawn, hoping to find anything that could keep him more preoccupied than staring at his bedroom ceiling. That particular morning was one that found two paths crossing, if only by the off chance that the boy’s wanderings had taken him near the temple entrance.

He senses a new presence before he sees it. Small feet move with delicacy so as not to give himself away, approaching a nearby corner slow and steady for a quick peek. The brief glimpse rewards him with the sight of the newcomer, wider set but only just above him in height. The darker tone of his skin is broken up by smudges of flushed red that the unforgiving wind has painted in wide strokes over his cheeks and hands. Brown eyes, serious but curious, catch his own before he can duck away from view.

“Chirrut, this is hardly the time to be taking a stroll,” his elder chides, prompting a sheepish grin to weave its way onto his mouth. “The least you can do is lead our new friend back to where you’ll be resting. Yes?”

“Yes, master,” he fidgets, the approach of the older boy coaxing a shyness from him that’s always quick to arrive and slow to burn away. They meander through dark hallways, pinpricks of nervousness bringing heat to Chirrut’s face as he’s followed towards the living quarters. The sunlight is only just beginning to break over the horizon, and with it, the forgiveness of a rising warmth spreads like honey to smooth over the harsh chill of eveningtime.

That’s what Baze had felt like—the reliable and certain coming of day. Something one could count on: a tempo of a different kind, but steady all the same. The dawning of light, a warmth welcoming enough that even a stray cat would halt its ceaseless prowl for a break to bask in it.

\----

In the end, it had taken four months for the remainder of Chirrut’s vision to glaze over into shadow. He was grateful, at least, for the time he had been allowed to adjust and learn a new way of life. The hopelessness had been slow to unwind its tendrils from him, but in its place came a renewed and firey determination to do everything that he could to maintain his independence. To continue to serve as a guardian to the best of his ability, to rejoice in the changes rather than to live a life with his faith and hope cast aside.

Though winter was a constant presence on Jedha, there were parts of the year that weren’t quite so unforgiving. Rarely, the temperatures would climb high enough for the breeze to soften its touch to gentleness. He sits outside in the gardens, soaking in the feeling of warm sun against his arms and face, the sounds of wildlife twittering in the greenery around him. The soft buzz of pollenating insects fills the flora, reminiscent of the hushed and excited chatter of young boys.

It would be a lie if he claimed he had only sought out the spot to appreciate the world around him. Though meditating outdoors had become a daily habit in an effort to keep himself centered, he had ventured outside just an hour earlier than his usual time, waiting in eagerness for the presence he knew would soon join him.

He smells the steam rising off the rolls just before the sound of quiet footfalls approaches.

“Good morning, Baze,” he hums, smiling slightly when steps suddenly halt before him. He lifts one hand from the staff in his lap to wave, though he cannot see if the gesture is returned.

“Chirrut,” his friend responds quietly. It was obvious he had been caught by surprise; the younger guardian could practically feel the heat rising off of Baze’s cheeks from the bench he sat upon. He pats the wood next to him in a gesture of goodwill, and waits patiently as hesitation turns to fidgets and eventual resignation. He’s passed a roll: the familiar, sticky treat that had sat waiting for him every day at his usual spot in the gardens.

Chirrut sits silently for a long minute, his soft smile giving away the affection that threatens to spill over. He had always been fond of his fellow acolyte, but could never fully tell what kind of place he held in his heart. As children, they had gotten into their fair share of disputes, but had continued on as adamant training partners regardless. Their teasing of one another was good-natured, and though Baze had occasionally feigned annoyance at the younger boy’s habitual thievery of sweets and frequent dunce-like behavior, it was easy to sense the fondness that had grown inside of him, too.

“So,” he grins, “you’re the one that’s been fattening me up?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Baze huffs, though his denial is weak. “You’re practically letting yourself starve, skipping breakfast for this. I’m just making sure you don’t get told off again.”

“Oh, of course,” he teases.

“It’s true!”

At the sound of his friend rising to leave in flustered embarrassment, Chirrut grabs hold of his wrist to stop him, the movement lacking of any planned thought and surprising them both. Like dolls, the two boys remain stuck in their poses as the initial shock slowly dissipates from their forms. They were used to the close proximity their training demanded of each other, but rarely had they touched outside of that room, and rarer still for it to be in a moment that only held each other’s company. It was new territory for the both of them, but neither moved to pull away, transfixed by a closeness that neither of them had known growing up in a temple.

Emboldened by Baze’s tenseness softening, Chirrut moves his grasp down until his fingers brush over his friend’s. His hand is warm and wide, and the stains of flour are still present against his skin. A second hand places itself atop the grasp so that he can hold his friend’s completely, beaming an affectionate smile up towards where he’s certainly being watched with widened eyes.

“Thank you.” He pauses, meditating on how to word the erratic and eager notions that skitter through his mind. “Someone…,” he turns the thought over and over like a stone, as if to smooth and refine it; then, adjusting, “ _a very wise person_  once told me to reach out to the Force if I wish to receive from it.” Chirrut feels Baze’s hand twitch. “I think that it’s also wise to reach out to others in your life, too. If we have been taught anything, it is the importance of community, the strength that can be found in one another. Don’t you think?”

Silence settles between them, interrupted only by the breeze that tickles their trimmed hair. This time, the quiet is comfortable; an ease is already beginning to form between the two acolytes where there once crept an uncertainty. Two boys, fumbling in the dark, finally finding their way towards a greater harmony, a more open honesty.

A second hand clasps on top of his own, an answer needless of words. Chirrut stands, and they walk together through the gardens, enjoying their breakfast side by side. A compliment of the bake prompts a ferocious blush to rise, heat that the younger can feel in the hand he gently grasps. There’s a strength in it that exceeds his own, earned from long hours kneading and working dough in the kitchen. The staff taps quietly on the stone walkway in front of them; the morning wind tickles the shrubs and leaves. Baze’s deep, calm voice describes the recent blooms to him in a tone that Chirrut could curl up and listen to for hours.

If his face were to ever slip from his memory, he knows at least that his voice will always be nearby. The fear that the future had once gripped him with is mostly gone from him, now, replaced with the hope he draws from himself and from the sturdy presence next to him. He feels certain that their paths had become irrevocably intertwined, through whatever the Force may bring to them.

He had been told by his elders that the Force gave and took in equal measures, a precarious balance constantly maintained in the universe. If his sight had been traded for the chance to grow closer to his friend, for the love swelling in his chest, for an opportunity to learn and mature as a boy clumsily adjusting to adulthood, then he would take it, in any lifetime, with open arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Named after Joanna Newsom's "Sawdust and Diamonds"
> 
> Edit: Thank you so much to everyone who's left kudos and comments! I appreciate the kind words.


End file.
